“You saved my life, Osceola! I thought I was a goner. Some day perhaps I may be able to show you that I appreciate what you did for me.”
“Oh, that’s all right!” Osceola’s voice showed his embarrassment. “And you did more than that for me on the muck heap this afternoon. Pete’s out for good now—and I must confess I’m not sorry.”
“Here, too.—You spoke of plans just now. Got any?”
“Not a single idea—but what about yours?”
“Well, I was tired and sleepy a while back. Couldn’t think. But that snake woke me up—and how!”
“What are you thinking of?”
“That we wait here for an hour—then hike over to the compound.”
“But—you mean—to give ourselves up?” Osceola cried in astonishment.
“Give ourselves up—nothing! I’m going to get us out of this rotten cypress swamp for good and all. But to get away from here we’ve got to go back there first.”
Osceola grunted. “What you are saying probably means something to you—to me it is as plain as mud. Sounds like a minstrel gag. Tell me, Mr. Bones, when and why we must go in there in order to get out of here!”